Robert sat across from me, his bowl of stew untouched, his fingers gripping the edge as if it were the only thing keeping him grounded. The fire crackled between us, its golden light flickering across his pale face. His eyes—usually filled with that steady, unshakable resolve—were distant, unfocused, like he was still somewhere else. Somewhere darker.
I finally broke the silence. "You gonna tell me what happened, or are we just gonna sit here and pretend you didn't come sprinting out of the woods like a lunatic?"
Robert let out a breath—shaky, uneven. He rubbed a hand over his face, and for the first time, I noticed it was trembling.
"I saw something," he muttered, voice barely above a whisper. "Something bad."
I shifted, sitting up straighter. "How bad?"
Robert looked up at me then, and the firelight caught in his green eyes, making them look almost hollow. "I found a campsite. Not ours. Further out." He swallowed hard. "At first, I thought it was just another group of travelers, but then I saw them."
"Them?"
Robert glanced over his shoulder, like he expected someone to be lurking in the shadows. His voice dropped lower. "A group of men, all wearing these dark cloaks. There were at least six of them. Maybe more. They were standing in a circle around this guy—he was on his knees, hands tied behind his back. And they—" Robert's jaw clenched. "They killed him, Jason."
My stomach twisted. "Just like that?"
He nodded stiffly. "One of them said something—I couldn't hear what—and then another just… slit his throat. Like it was nothing. Then they set the whole campsite on fire."
I felt cold, despite the fire burning between us. "So you ran?"
Robert hesitated, his grip tightening on the bowl. "No."
I stared at him. "What do you mean, no?"
He let out a slow breath. "I went to him."
"You what?"
"I don't know, Jason! He was still alive. Barely. And I couldn't just—just leave him there." He shook his head, looking frustrated with himself. "I didn't think. I just ran to him."
I swore under my breath. "And? What happened?"
Robert looked down at his arm—the one with the brace he was so obviously trying to hide. He ran a thumb over it, his face unreadable. "He wasn't just some guy. He was an elf."
I blinked. "A what?"
"An elf." Robert's voice was quiet, like saying it too loudly would make it less believable. "Blonde hair, sharp blue eyes—the kind that practically glowed. He looked like he was straight out of one of those old stories. And before he died, he grabbed my arm—" He lifted it slightly, finally acknowledging the brace. "—and gave me this."
I stared at it. The strange, otherworldly material. The faint glow pulsing beneath the surface. Something about it made the hair on my arms stand on end.
"What did he say?" I asked, my voice barely above a whisper.
Robert exhaled, running a hand through his hair. "'Stop the Black Hand. Find the White Knight.'" His fingers clenched into a fist. "And then he just kept repeating it, over and over, until he—" Robert stopped, shaking his head. "Until he was gone."
The fire crackled, sending a shower of sparks into the air.
I didn't know what to say. What could I say? I wanted to tell him it was nonsense, that he must've imagined it, that we were just two poor kids who had no business getting tangled up in anything bigger than stealing bread from the market. But I couldn't. Because I believed him.
And that scared me more than anything.
"What happened after that?" I finally asked.
Robert's eyes darkened. "I heard voices. More of them, coming back. I didn't stick around to find out why." He exhaled sharply. "I ran. As fast as I could. I didn't stop until I found you."
Silence stretched between us. The night pressed in, thick and heavy. Somewhere in the distance, an owl hooted, oblivious to the weight of the moment.
I looked at Robert—the way his shoulders were drawn tight, the way his hand kept hovering near the brace like it burned him. He had always been the steady one. The one with the answers. The one who never looked afraid.
But right now, he was terrified.
And that terrified me.
"What do we do now?" I finally asked.
Robert shook his head. "I don't know. I don't even know how to find the White Knight, and honestly? I don't think we should find him. Not right now." He let out a breath. "I say we just stick to the job. Get to the capital, sell my father's goods, and stay out of trouble."
I nodded, though the weight of what he'd said still sat heavy in my chest. "Yeah. That's probably the smart thing to do."
Silence settled between us again, so I tried to steer the conversation somewhere—anywhere—else. "So, if you could do anything," I asked, stirring the last of my stew with my spoon, "what would you do?"
Robert arched a brow. "You mean, aside from dealing with cryptic dying elves?"
I smirked. "Yeah, aside from that."
He leaned back against a log, staring up at the sky. The stars stretched endlessly above us, tiny flecks of silver dusted against the dark velvet of night. The moon was high, glowing like a guardian watching over us. In the distance, crickets chirped, and the occasional hoot of an owl echoed through the trees.
After a long pause, Robert finally spoke. "I'd enter the tournament."
I frowned. "Tournament?"
He nodded. "The one in the capital. The gladiator fights."
I let out a low whistle. "The one where you keep fighting until you win? And if you win, you get five hundred gold coins?"
"And the chance to slay the dragon," Robert added.
I scoffed. "Right. Because that's what you want. To go out and fight a dragon."
Robert grinned, but there was something serious behind it. "If you kill the dragon, you become king."
"Yeah. If you kill the dragon. Which, by the way, no one has done in fifty years." I gave him a pointed look. "You do realize that means everyone who's tried has died, right?"
Robert shrugged. "Someone has to win eventually."
I shook my head, laughing under my breath. "You're insane."
He smirked. "Maybe."
I stared at him for a moment, then up at the sky. The stars still shone, indifferent to everything happening down here. Maybe Robert was right. Maybe someone had to win eventually. Who knows, maybe Robert really could do it, maybe I could too.
I chuckled to myself, he finally started to get to me, filling my head with all these crazy ideas. No, I had to focus on reality, dreaming would get me nowhere.
I finally decided to break the silence after a while. "That thing's been going on for fifty years and no one's won yet. What makes you think you could?"
Robert shrugged. "My brother and I used to train all the time when we were kids. Spent hours in the woods, sword fighting until our arms felt like they'd fall off. We used sticks at first, but then we made wooden swords. I still have his old leather armor. Kept it after… well, after he disappeared."
Robert's voice wavered at the end. I didn't press for details, I already knew the gist of the story, everyone in the village did . If he didn't want to talk about it, he didn't have to. Instead, I played it off casually redirecting the conversation. "So, you can fight trees really well? Good to know."
Robert rolled his eyes. "I kept practicing. Not like there was anyone else to train with."
I hesitated for only a moment before asking, "Think you could teach me?"
He blinked, clearly surprised. "You?"
I shrugged. "Just curious. Figured knowing how to swing a sword might come in handy one day."
He studied me for a moment, looking me over before nodding. "Alright. But don't cry when you get knocked on your ass."
I smirked. "I'll try to hold back the tears."
The fire crackled between them, and above, the moon bathed the forest in its silver glow. Somewhere in the distance, an animal rustled in the underbrush, but for the first time that night, I felt something close to peace.
The morning air was crisp, dew clinging to the grass and making the world feel fresh, untouched. I stretched, feeling the stiffness in my back from sleeping on the hard ground. Robert was already up, crouching near the fire pit, poking at the embers. The sky was just beginning to shift from indigo to soft pink, the first hints of dawn breaking over the horizon.
"Come on, lazy," Robert said, tossing me a chunk of bread from their dwindling supplies. "We need to get moving if we want to make it to the capital before sundown."
I caught the bread easily, brushing off some dirt before taking a bite. It was stale but edible. He stood, stretching his arms over his head before helping pack up our small camp.
As we hit the road again, the wagon creaked beneath us, Big Bertha trotting along at her usual sluggish pace. The landscape was shifting, the thick forest giving way to rolling hills and patches of farmland. Smoke curled from distant chimneys, marking small settlements along the way.
"So," I started after a while, "when do I get my first lesson in tree-fighting?"
Robert smirked. "We'll start when we get to the capital. Plenty of trees there to challenge you."
I rolled his eyes. "Lucky me."
The journey continued, the road stretching endlessly ahead, the capital waiting for them just beyond the horizon.
The road stretched endlessly ahead, bathed in the golden light of the late morning sun. The air was thick with the scent of freshly tilled earth, mingling with the crisp sweetness of wildflowers that dotted the rolling hills. Fields of wheat swayed gently in the breeze, rippling like a golden ocean, and beyond them, small cottages with thatched roofs stood clustered together, their chimneys puffing thin trails of smoke into the sky.
Robert sat hunched forward on the wagon, the reins slack in his hands as Big Bertha plodded along at her usual sluggish pace. Every now and then, she flicked her tail half-heartedly, as if swatting at an invisible excuse to slow down even more.
"If we keep at this pace, we should reach the capital before sundown," Robert said, adjusting his grip on the reins.
I scoffed. "If Bertha keeps at this pace, we'll reach the capital when we're old men."
The donkey flicked an ear in what I could only assume was irritation, though she showed no actual sign of speeding up. Robert smirked. "She's just pacing herself. Unlike you, she doesn't go barreling into things without thinking first."
I shot him a look. "That's rich, coming from the guy who decided to spy on a bunch of hooded weirdos in the middle of the woods."
Robert sighed through his nose, clearly done with that conversation. Which meant I had won.
We lapsed into silence, the wagon creaking rhythmically beneath us, the occasional jostle of a pothole making me regret not claiming a softer spot against the sacks of vegetables. The further we traveled, the more the landscape began to change—the towering trees that had loomed over us for so long had thinned, giving way to wide, open plains. The sky seemed bigger here, stretching endlessly in all directions, a vast expanse of blue peppered with drifting clouds.
After a while, Robert spoke again. "What about you? If you could do anything, what would it be?"
I frowned, caught off guard. "You mean, aside from not starving?"
He gave me a look. "Yeah, aside from that."
I opened my mouth, but nothing came out. The truth was, I had never really thought about it. Dreams weren't something I had the luxury to entertain. Every day was about survival—making sure Caleb had food, keeping my father's temper at bay, making it through another day. What was the point in dreaming when reality didn't leave room for it?
After a long moment, I settled on the only honest answer I could think of. "I don't know. Something that doesn't involve getting beaten half to death every other day."
Robert didn't say anything to that. He didn't have to. His grip on the reins tightened slightly, his knuckles turning white, but he let the silence settle between us.
I leaned back against the sacks, letting my eyes drift over the passing scenery, but my mind had already started to wander.
My mother's face had become a blur. I used to remember her perfectly—the wavy blonde hair, the warm smile, the way she would hum under her breath while she cooked. Now, all I had left was the sound of her voice, distant and faded like an old song I could no longer recall the lyrics to.
She and my father had married young—too young, people used to say. But for a time, they were happy. My father had been different back then. He had laughed. He had worked hard in the forge, his hands always black with soot and smelling of iron. He had carried me on his shoulders and bought my mother wildflowers from the market. He had been a good man.
Then Caleb was born, and everything changed.
The accident happened not long after—a slip of the hand, a misstep, and suddenly my father's leg was shattered beyond repair. He couldn't work the forge anymore, couldn't provide, and that frustration had rotted into something else.
He started drinking. And when my mother finally had enough and left, taking whatever light was left in our home with her…
There was nothing left of the man he used to be.
"Jason?"
I blinked, snapping back to the present. Robert was watching me with a frown.
"You okay?"
I forced a smirk. "What, worried about me now?"
"You just got real quiet all of a sudden," he said. "That's never a good sign."
I stretched, making a show of yawning. "Just bored. How much further, oh great navigator?"
Robert stared at me for a moment before deciding to let it go. "Another couple of hours. Maybe less if Bertha feels like being cooperative."
I patted the donkey's back. "You hear that, girl? Pick up the pace, and I'll steal you an extra carrot at the market."
Bertha ignored me completely.
Robert chuckled. "Bribery won't work. She only listens to me."
"A real tragedy," I muttered.
The road stretched ahead of us, winding through hills and disappearing into the horizon. The capital wasn't far off now. I could feel it. And even though I had no idea what would be waiting for us when we got there, I had the strange feeling that whatever it was… it was going to change everything.
The road stretched before us like an old, sun-bleached ribbon, winding through rolling hills and scattered patches of farmland. The golden fields of wheat swayed gently in the breeze, their tips brushing against the wind like ocean waves. Birds darted across the sky, their silhouettes fleeting against the ever-stretching blue. Here and there, clusters of trees stood tall, their leaves a vibrant green, whispering softly in the wind.
Robert steered the wagon in relative silence, his fingers drumming idly against the reins. I, on the other hand, was slumped against the side of the cart, watching the endless stretch of road with a growing sense of boredom.
"How much longer till we reach the capital?" I asked, not for the first time.
Robert sighed. "Few more hours, give or take."
I groaned dramatically. "Feels like we've been on this road for days."
"We have," Robert said flatly. "That's how traveling works."
I was about to come up with a witty retort when the wagon gave a sudden, jarring lurch. There was a sharp crack, and before either of us could react, the right side of the wagon dipped violently. Bertha snorted in irritation as the right side of the cart dipped sharply, sending a cascade of vegetables tumbling into the dirt.
Robert let out a colorful string of curses, jumping down to assess the damage. I followed, already dreading what I was about to see.
Sure enough, one of the wheels had snapped clean in half. A jagged piece of wood jutted out from the axle like a broken bone.
"Well," I said, surveying the mess, "that's unfortunate."
Robert shot me a look. "Unfortunate? The wheel's busted, half our supplies are rolling down the damn road, and we're still half a day from the capital."
I waved a hand. "Right, yes, all very bad. But look on the bright side—"
"There is no bright side, Jason," he interrupted, rubbing his temples. "None."
I sighed, glancing at the scattered produce. Carrots, potatoes, onions—basically everything we needed to not starve—were now rolling gleefully down the dirt path.
"Alright," I relented, bending down to scoop up a rogue potato, "let's fix what we can."
The next twenty minutes were spent chasing down every last vegetable that had made a bid for freedom. Some had rolled off the road and into the tall grass, which made retrieving them a particularly frustrating experience. By the time we had everything back in the cart, I was covered in dirt, sweat, and a healthy dose of annoyance.
Meanwhile, Robert had tried and failed to push the wagon forward on its three remaining wheels. Bertha, bless her heart, gave it a solid attempt, but the weight of the cart made it impossible to move properly.
Robert exhaled sharply, wiping the sweat from his brow. "There's a town not far from here. We'll have to stop there and find someone to fix it."
I groaned, cracking my back from all the bending and chasing. "Great. More walking."
And so, we trudged forward, guiding Bertha along at a painstakingly slow pace. Every few minutes, the wagon would hit a dip in the road, causing it to lurch awkwardly, which in turn led to more swearing from Robert.
By the time we reached the outskirts of the town, the sun had climbed higher into the sky, casting everything in a warm golden hue. The town itself was small but lively, nestled between rolling hills and farmlands. A wooden archway marked the entrance, the name Hollow's Edge carved into the beam above.
Despite its size, the place bustled with activity. Merchants lined the dirt road, their stalls brimming with goods—freshly baked bread, woven cloth, jars of honey that glowed amber in the sunlight. Farmers hauled crates of produce, their voices carrying over the chatter of townsfolk. Horses trotted lazily past, their riders exchanging greetings as they passed. A group of children darted between buildings, their laughter ringing through the air like birdsong.
It smelled incredible—yeast and sugar, roasted meat, and the faintest trace of wildflowers drifting in from the meadows beyond. For a town this small, it was shockingly lively.
We guided Bertha toward the blacksmith's shop, where a sturdy-looking man with arms the size of tree trunks was hammering away at a piece of metal. Robert exchanged a few words with him, explaining our predicament.
The blacksmith—who introduced himself as Garrick—scratched his beard before nodding. "I can fix it. Won't take too long. Go on, wander the town for a bit."
Robert glanced at me, tossing me a water skin. "Go fill these up while I stay with the wagon."
I caught them easily, sighing. "Yeah, yeah."
With that, I turned and made my way through the bustling streets toward the well at the town center.
That's when I saw them.
Two kids—a boy and a girl, no older than Caleb—cowering in the dirt as a burly shopkeeper loomed over them, his face twisted in anger.
"You filthy little thieves!" he barked, grabbing the boy by his collar and hauling him up. The girl clung desperately to his arm, eyes wide with fear.
I didn't hesitate.
"Hey!" My voice rang out, sharp and cutting through the crowd. People turned to look, but I didn't care. I stormed forward, heart hammering. "What's going on here?"
The shopkeeper turned, glaring at me with piggish eyes. He was a thick man, his apron stained with flour, his hands rough and calloused. "These little rats were stealing from my stall."
The boy struggled in his grip, kicking his legs uselessly. The girl trembled beside him.
I crossed my arms, forcing my expression into something vaguely unimpressed. "And? You're really about to beat up a couple of kids over a loaf of bread?"
"They took from me," the man growled. "Thieves deserve punishment."
I tilted my head, glancing around at the gathered onlookers. No one was stepping in. I sighed dramatically.
"Listen," I said, rubbing my temple. "I get it. Stealing is bad, blah blah blah. But how about this—why don't you let them go, and I'll pay for whatever they took?"
The shopkeeper narrowed his eyes. "You? You don't look like you've got two coins to rub together."
I grinned. "True, but I do have a very loud mouth, and I have no problem making sure everyone in this town knows you make a habit of beating up starving children." I gestured to the onlookers. "Unless, of course, you'd rather be known as the big, bad man who was bested by a couple of ten-year-olds."
The shopkeeper's jaw clenched. His grip remained firm for a moment longer before he finally shoved the boy back into the dirt.
"Stay away from my stall," he snapped before storming off.
I let out a breath, turning back to the two kids. "You guys okay?"
But before I could get another word out, the boy grabbed the girl's hand, and the two of them bolted, disappearing into an alleyway before I could stop them.
I blinked. "You're welcome?"
With a sigh, I shook my head and made my way toward the well. I filled the water skins, the cold water sloshing against the leather as I cinched them tight. The encounter still sat heavy in my mind, but I pushed it aside.
By the time I made it back to Robert, he was leaning against the wagon, arms crossed, watching the blacksmith work on the broken wheel.
"Everything go okay?" he asked as I handed him a water skin.
I nodded. "Yeah, no trouble," I said simply, taking a long sip from my own water skin.
Robert studied me for a second, but if he suspected I was holding something back, he didn't press. Instead, he gestured toward the wagon. "Good news—the wheel's getting fixed. Shouldn't take too long."
I exhaled, leaning against the side of the cart. "That's a relief. I'm ready to get moving again."
Robert hummed in agreement, stretching his arms over his head. I glanced back toward the alleyway where the kids had disappeared, my mind still lingering on them. But I pushed the thought aside. They were long gone now, and it wasn't my problem anymore.
The town bustled around us, merchants calling out their wares, children darting between stalls, the scent of fresh bread and roasting meat drifting through the air. It was peaceful, ordinary—completely at odds with the things we had seen just the night before.
I tightened my grip on the water skin, keeping my thoughts to myself. There was no point in telling Robert about the kids. It wouldn't change anything.
Instead, I just leaned back against the cart and closed my eyes, waiting for the wheel to be fixed, for the road to call us forward once more.
The road rolled out before us like a great winding ribbon, cutting through fields of gold and green. With the wheel repaired and the wagon creaking along as best it could behind Big Bertha, we left the little town behind and pushed forward into the wilder country. The air had shifted since morning—cooler now, with the bite of coming dusk tucked behind every breeze—and the sun was lowering, casting warm golden light over everything it touched.
For a while, we didn't speak much, just watched the world pass us by. The forests that had once hemmed us in now gave way to open stretches of rolling hills, each one blanketed in wildflowers that danced and dipped in the wind like colored waves. Poppies, daisies, and purple foxglove stretched as far as the eye could see, and the scent of blooming things hung sweet in the air. Butterflies flitted lazily past, as if they had nowhere in particular to be.
Occasionally, a rabbit would dart out from the underbrush, pause to sniff the air, and disappear again in a flash of white tail. We saw a family of deer grazing by a shimmering brook, their ears twitching and heads lifting in unison as we passed. At one point, a bear lumbered across the trail ahead of us, slow and deliberate, like he was the one doing us a favor by not mauling us on the spot. Robert had frozen with a hand halfway to his boot, but the bear barely spared us a glance before trundling off into the woods with a huff.
"Think we'll ever get used to seeing stuff like that?" I asked once the bear was out of sight.
Robert blew out a breath. "I hope not. That's how people die—getting too comfortable around bears."
"Words to live by," I said, nodding solemnly.
He grinned, nudging Big Bertha to keep going.
Later, we passed a mountain range in the distance, hazy blue giants sitting on the edge of the world. Snow capped their peaks, glittering in the sun like powdered silver. A river snaked its way beside the path for a while, the water so clear it was like looking through glass. I caught glimpses of fish darting below the surface, scales flashing like coins in the current.
"This," Robert said at one point, gesturing broadly to the landscape, "is why I wanted to leave the farm. I mean, look at this."
"Mountains and bears," I said. "Truly the dream."
"You joke," he said, "but don't tell me it's not better than shoeing cattle and hauling sacks of turnips every day."
I shrugged, though I couldn't stop the small smile tugging at the corner of my mouth. "Alright, fine. It beats getting screamed at by my father and stepping on rusty nails."
"There it is," he said, smirking. "Progress."
We lapsed back into silence for a while. The rhythm of the road was soothing—clop, creak, clop, creak—the low thrum of the wagon wheels mixing with the gentle chirp of birds in the trees.
Somewhere in that silence, my thoughts drifted again. Not to strange cloaked men or dying elves or magical bracers—but to Caleb. I wondered what he was doing right now, if he was alright, if the bread I'd left had lasted him long enough. If he was scared. I didn't let the thoughts linger too long. They had teeth.
The sun was beginning to dip below the hills when Robert finally spoke again. "Let's find a place to camp before it gets dark. I'd rather not end up in a bear's bedtime story."
"Agreed," I said, already scanning the trees for a decent clearing.
Eventually, we found one just off the road: a flat patch of earth surrounded by tall pines, their branches reaching toward the sky like the arms of ancient giants. The river was nearby too—close enough for water, far enough to avoid any surprise visits from thirsty wildlife.
As Robert started to unhitch Bertha, I looked out at the horizon. The last light of the sun was bleeding out across the sky, painting everything in soft shades of lavender and rose. Another day down. Another few steps toward whatever waited for us in the capital.
And for once, I didn't feel completely lost.